


Far to Reach

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bleak, Frottage, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Tim thinks that he's probably the last person Martin expects at his door. The fact that he made it there after everything is something of a miracle.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	Far to Reach

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you MildredMost for the beta!

"Oh my _god_ ," Martin says.  
  
Tim laughs. He's disgusting, covered in dirt and blood and who knows how many other things, he's sore and tired in a way that he's never felt before, a way that seems to go down into his very bones, but he laughs all the same. The reaction is exactly what he expected, right down to the wide eyes and the gaping mouth, the white-knuckled grip on the door.  
  
The knife he pulls out is a bit of a shock, though.  
  
"I don't know what you are," Martin says in a high, trembling voice, "but you need to go. I don't, I don't want to hurt you, but -"  
  
Tim rolls his eyes. "As if you could," he says. He puts his hands in the air, palms out. "Look, I'm me. I know it took me a while to get here but it hasn't exactly been easy. If it makes you feel better you can keep the knife, but I'd really like a shower if possible."  
  
Martin bites his lip, eyes flitting from Tim's hands to his face and back again. He shifts from foot to foot. Tim tries to be patient but he can feel the exhaustion pulling at him, weighing him down. He wants to lean against something, anything, and close his eyes, but he keeps himself straight, hands still raised, waiting for Martin's decision.  
  
After what seems like hours Martin's face sets and he sighs, stepping back and lowering the knife to his side. "Okay," he says. "But if you're going to kill me please -"  
  
His words break off when Tim steps inside and wraps him in a fierce hug. He's filthy and he knows he's squeezing too hard, but Martin doesn't seem to care; he lets out a soft sound that almost sounds like a sob and hugs back just as fiercely. Tim can feel the handle of the knife pressing into his back.  
  
"I thought you were dead," Martin says softly, voice wet and choked. "I thought -"  
  
"Yeah, me too," Tim breathes. He closes his eyes and rests his dirty head in the crook of Martin's neck, holding him even more tightly than before.  
  
Martin gives him some of his clothes to wear. "I know they're too big," he says, apologetic, "but I don't have anything else."  
  
Tim holds the soft material in his hands and resists the urge to bury his face in it. "It's fine," he says, an understatement. "Anything's better than this," gesturing down at himself, and that's true, and makes Martin smile. All the clothes Tim's wearing are fit for is the bin. Or perhaps burning.  
  
The shower is amazing. Tim stands under the spray for a long time, relishing the warmth on his chilled skin. The grit comes off of him easier than he would have thought, too, and he scrubs himself until there's not a trace of it left, until he feels something like normal.  
  
The clothes are much too big, hanging off of Tim's smaller frame. The sleeves of the jumper cover his hands and the hemline falls just over his knees, and the bottoms bunch up at his ankles, the waistline sagging, threatening to slide down his hips. Thankfully they have a drawstring and he pulls it tight, trying not to think about the way these clothes would have fit months ago, trying not to think about why he might have worn them. He thinks about it anyway, of course. It's a well-worn path his mind is used to taking, and now he actually has the feeling of Martin's clothes against his skin, the smell of his soap and shampoo in the air amidst the steam from the shower. Tim takes a deep breath, holding it in his lungs as he steps out of the bathroom.  
  
Martin has made him tinned soup. He sits at the table with Tim while he eats it, and Tim shifts his foot, pushing their ankles together under the table. Martin stiffens for a moment and Tim thinks that he's going to pull away, but then he relaxes, pressing back.  
  
"Where _were_ you, Tim?" he asks. "It's been nearly two weeks, we couldn't find your- and I-we all thought that you were -" he cuts himself off and shakes his head. "I don't-"  
  
"I thought I was going to die," Tim says. "I went in there thinking that was the way it was going to be, and it felt right. It felt like justice."  
  
He should have died, is the thing. Should have ended there, both revenge and penance for Danny's death in one fell swoop, but he hadn't. He'd woken up aching all over, covered in soot and rubble, torn up but alive. Crawling his way out of the mess of the remains of the Circus had been one of the worst experiences of his life - his chest had felt like it was about to collapse at any moment and more than once his hand had touched something that may or may not have been human and the thought of it made him sick. He'd felt that he'd lose his mind before he got himself completely out of there and he almost had, he thought. But finally he'd found his way out, and no air had ever tasted as good as the stuff he breathed away from the destruction.  
  
"I don't remember much after that," Tim says. "I just knew I had to get somewhere safe."  
  
"And you came to me?" Martin's eyebrow goes up. "Why didn't you - you should have gone to hospital, you could have internal injuries, you-"  
  
"No," Tim says, shaking his head. "Not there, not yet. Too many eyes." He shudders. "I just wanted to be with someone I trusted. Someone I could be sure was themselves."  
  
Martin's face creases in sympathy, and he reaches out, gasping one of Tim's hands in his own. Tim turns his hand so that he can lace their fingers together, not quite able to stop himself, and Martin squeezes his hand.  
  
"How are the others?" Tim asks. "Did they make it out?"  
  
Martin shakes his head. "Basira did. She didn't say much, only that you were probably - and Daisy, too. We didn't - they couldn't find your - your - but Basira told us about the explosion."  
  
"And Jon?"  
  
Martin's face tightens and he looks away. His hand twitches in Tim's but he doesn't try to take it back, and Tim for his part isn't about to release it. Right now it feels like the only thing tethering him to reality.  
  
"He's alive," Martin says. "If you can call it that." He laughs wetly. "He just - machines breathe for him and keep his heart beating and he looks like he's sleeping. Maybe he is. The doctors don't understand it, I don't understand it and everything's wrong and he won't wake up-" he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then another. His hand is trembling in Tim's. "Everything went wrong. We thought we could make it work but you and Daisy _died_ and Jon's in a coma and sure, Elias is in prison but now we have Peter Lukas instead and he's worse. At least we had an idea what Elias was after."  
  
"I'm not dead," Tim says, and Martin laughs again. This time, though, the laugh is more relief than grief.  
  
"Yeah," he says, and the way he looks at Tim makes his breath catch. He'd thought that he was done with this, thought he'd shoved it out of him when Martin made it clear where his real priorities were, but he guesses that he'd only managed to shove the feelings down, not purge them entirely. How could he have, when the delighted awe in Maritn's face as he looks at him makes his heart speed up and his stomach swoop?  
  
He tips forward almost without meaning to, and Martin meets him halfway.  
  
The kiss is hard, with a tinge of desperation, and Tim falls into it immediately, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. He slides his free hand into Martin's hair, pressing his fingers against his head to keep him in place. Martin, for his part, doesn't seem to want to go anywhere; he moans into Tim's mouth and tugs him forward, nearly spilling him onto the floor. Their mouths separate briefly as Tim fights for balance, and Tim thinks _fuck it_ and gets up. Martin immediately pulls him forward again and he sinks back down into his mouth, straddling his lap and moaning when he finds him hard beneath him.  
  
_Yes_ he thinks, and he knows that this is probably just a response to him being alive after all but he doesn't care. He rocks himself against the bulge in Martin's jeans and this time it's Martin who moans, pulling his mouth away from Tim's so that he can attach it to his neck. He nips and sucks down the length of it, and Tim rocks down harder, tilting his head to give Martin better access. He tugs his hand from Martin's so that he can slide it under his shirt and over the soft skin of his belly and chest, and the other finds its way back into Martin's hair, fingers curling around the strands as he pushes Martin's face into his neck.  
  
"Please," he says, and "yes," and Martin bites, making Tim's hips jerk in a way that really hurts his ribs but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter; nothing does past the feel of Martin's body under his hands, his mouth on his neck. His hips twitching up, driving their erections together.  
  
The only sounds in the room are their panting breaths and moans, the creaking of the chair as they rock faster and faster together. Their mouths find each other again and they kiss and kiss and kiss, and it's hard to breathe with the air as thick as it is but none of that seems important. The world has narrowed down to Martin as his hands slide down to palm Tim's arse, pulling him in tighter, harder. His tongue as it slides against Tim's, drawing it into his mouth so he can suck on it. His thighs, trembling as he gets closer and closer to the edge. All Tim wants to do is make him come, to prove to both of them that this is real, he's alive and he's not going anywhere. Never again.  
  
Martin groans into Tim's mouth, body shuddering against his. His hips jerk up and he arches against the chair, hands grinding Tim down into his cock. Tim's feet leave the ground, and that - the strength of it, his body helplessly caught between Martin's body and his hands - sets Tim off too, cock jerking in his borrowed pajama bottoms as he comes apart.  
  
Martin slumps into the chair and Tim slumps against Martin, resting against his comforting bulk. It hurts his ribs though and he has to sit up, trying to hide his pained wince.  
  
Martin catches him because of course he does. "What?" he says.  
  
Tim shakes his head. "I'm fine."  
  
"You're not fine." Martin's eyes are wide. "You're all beat up. I _knew_ that and I just -"  
  
" _We_ just," Tim says, voice firm. "And I'd do it again. It was worth it. It was -" he cuts himself off with a laugh, and he's sure he doesn't mean for the stunned happiness he feels to enter his voice, but it does and that too, is worth it, for the way it makes Martin smile, makes his eyes go soft and fond.  
  
Martin cups his face and leans forward, kissing him lightly. "I don't know if I said it before, but I'm really glad you're alive," he says, and Tim grins, following him when he retreats so that he can kiss him back.  
  
"I am, too," he says, and for the first time since he woke up, he means it.  
  
Martin shoos Tim towards his bedroom. “Look in the second drawer of the dresser for more clothes,” he says, grinning at him when he raises a brow. “New bottoms at the very least.”  
  
Tim’s mouth ticks up in response, and Martin beams at him. He looks ridiculous, hair mussed, jumper wrinkled and jeans stained with come, Tim’s soup bowl in one hand, and Tim has to kiss him again, to run his tongue along that smile and try to get a taste. Martin gives a contented little sigh when he does. His mouth opens readily and he kisses back, and Tim thinks that they’re dangerously close to forgetting all about the soup bowl, new clothes, and his broken ribs when the spoon falls out of the bowl, the clatter startling them both.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Martin says, face flushed and eyes bright. “I’ll clean up the mess. You – you go somewhere else. For a bit. And then if you still won’t go to hospital you can at least let me take a look. I don’t know much but I know some stuff, enough for the night at least.”  
  
“All right,” Tim says, and goes in the direction Martin had pointed in earlier. Just before he steps through the door he turns back to look.  
  
Martin is bending to pick up the spoon, a small smile still on his face. He looks happy, and it occurs to Tim that it’s the first time he’s seen Martin look that way in a long time. Warmth suffuses his chest at the knowledge that he made him look that way.  
  
Tim steps through the door, and the happy feeling disappears.  
  
He finds himself in a hallway full of doors. It appears as though the hall stretches on forever, no turns at all, but he knows better. All the turns are left and every one only leads to more endless hallways full of doors that only open at The Distortion’s behest, and then only ever for a short time. Only long enough to make it hurt when they close again.  
  
“No,” Tim says, and turns around. But of course there is no door behind him, not anymore. Maybe there never was.  
  
“Did you enjoy your little trip?” Michael asks. In his hallways his voice echoes, swells, seeming to reverberate off of the walls and in Tim’s ears, ricocheting off of his skull and making him clutch at his head in pain. “Was it everything you wanted?”  
  
_Yes_ Tim thinks, and _no_. “Was it even real?” is what he says, and Michael laughs, delighted. The laugh makes his bones feel like they’re vibrating out of his skin and Tim covers his ears but he can still hear it, and he clamps his hand over his mouth instead, to make sure that he’s not laughing too. It wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
“Reality is in the eye of the beholder,” Michael intones, and then laughs again. “Or is it what you make of it? I never could keep that straight.” The voice turns dark. “I could let the sharp things have you, you know. I’m being nice, keeping you here with me. But I’ve been getting hungry.”  
  
Tim doesn’t answer. It’s a threat he’s heard before, often enough that he’s beginning to think that Michael can’t go through with it. There’s no way to be sure, however, and he’d rather not test it. He closes his eyes, ignoring Michael as he continues his taunts. He focuses on the things he knows: the softness of his borrowed clothes against his skin, the slight pain in his neck from the places Martin bit and sucked. The sticky feeling on his cock and down his thighs from where he spent himself. He lifts the collar of his borrowed jumper up to his nose and inhales.  
  
It smells like Martin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you liked, please consider letting me know. :)


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